Confessions of a ShinRa Chain Smoker
by demonegg
Summary: A focus piece on Reno as he philosophizes, criticizes, and soliloquizes on the events before and during the compilation. His own personal recipe for life, yo.


**A/N:** I've read somewhere that authors need a catch-all drabble piece. This is not that. This is the result of initial frustration with GLS, which apparently results in my need to write bitter, sarcastic, foul-mouthed characters. I originally hadn't intended to post it, or give it a plot, but it seems like I will do both. This story starts sometime before Crisis Core, and will probably continue through the events of Advent Children.

I don't own FFVII or any of the characters. I also take no responsibility for any of the opinions put forth in this piece. Blame Reno and Shin-Ra company policy, which usually brings out the worst and snarkiest in people. Blame him for the rating, too, yo.

And lastly, I've read this over several times, and I fear (perhaps, maybe, just a little) OOCness & that the pace may be too rushed. My initial reaction was that it was within the bounds of an intelligent, sarcastic, devil-may-care Turk subjected to an incredibly inane bureaucratic process, but I become less and less sure that I captured this outside the realm of my own bias. But I'm currently suffering from a neck/back/rib injury, and call me delusional, but I have decided to quit worrying and post it. Read at your own risk.

* * *

**Preliminary Confessions:**

(A woman's voice comes on the tape. She enunciates slowly, with a vaguely pretentious air.)

_Day 1_

_6 July ----  
_

_Time: 10:07:17_

_First Name: _Reno.

_Last Name: _Reeee-no.

_Age:_ Legal.

_Sex: _Depends. What're you wearing?

_Height in inches:_ Either shorter than me or a supermodel. Legs to ya-ya, yo.

_Weight:_ Ah, goddamn. You're a porker. Or maybe anorexic? No way I'm tappin' that.

_Any Prior Conditions: _Oh, HELL no.

_Occupation: _Pride of the Turks, right here.

_Please relate your experience in Shin-Ra as thoroughly as possible. Take special note of all major activities and responses, both physical and psychological, as closely as possible. Your cooperation ensures that Shin-Ra leaders and scientists are properly equipped to address all your present and future needs._

_You may begin._

(A hissing sigh is heard, inhaled through the nose and blown out between the teeth.)

_10:08:30_

**Reno**: Fuck, yo.

Just fuck.

I got a fucking diary like I'm one of them preteens drooling over _the General_.

Dammit.

It's bad enough me'n Rude had to restrain a whole group of them last week. Worked themselves into a frenzy over one of the public recruiting posters of the royal jackass. And of course, the President had to go through there, so he sent in the Turks to clear 'em out, thinking it was some sort of riot. But, no, just a bunch of thirteen-year-olds fangirling over Seph's picture.

You think that's disturbing?

I've seen blue-haired geriatrics do the same thing, 'cept they're also trying to cop a feel.

Yeah, you're telling me. Granny needs to get her eyes checked. Or get herself euthanized. I mean, I had to go and drink myself stupid after that just so I could sleep that night.

You say I mighta done it anyways?

Fuck you.

_10:09:59_

(A door opens.)

(_Falsetto)_ Oh-em-gee. Sephiroth is here. Yoohoo! Sephy! SOLDIER on a stick! Over here.

(A pause.)

Squee! He _glared_ at me. (_Regular voice)_ I'm so excited I just about shit myself.

**Sephiroth **(Background): Hurry up and finish in here. (A pause.) And clean up your mess when you're done.

**Reno: **Oh hardy-har-har.

(Door closes.)

Asshole.

(Long drag from a cigarette is heard, followed by the crunch of the stub on the ashtray.)

_10:11:00_

Man, I wonder where Rude is? They probably gave him one of these too, but he's all like (_drops voice_) Shin-Ra Employee #123456789, Turk Rude reporting for duty. I'm tall, bald, and love moonlit walks on the beach. Sexy Midgar singles, call me. 632-9088. (_Regular voice_) Dude, Hojo. Quit writing, yo. It ain't his real number.

(Audible sigh and the scratch of fabric is heard.)

Damn. I need a beer. Ten-something? Fuck that. It's always happy hour somewhere, right?

(Subject sighs again, then bangs the the chair on the floor three times.)

Man, I don't know why they want to do this. Psychology's such a pseudoscience. You got one guy saying it's all in his head, and another saying everybody wants to bang their mother. 'Cept for you, Hojo. I'm totally warning Rude about you.

But whatever. Say I kill a guy. No family's gonna want to hear that my problem stemmed from childhood or that it was for the greater good. Or that they're in the lifestream, or that the whole fucking world isn't real. I read about this dude who said the universe was holographic. We were only different in the projection of our consciousness, but underneath all that, we were really nothing. Some others say energy or lifestream, like that's supposed to make us happy and feel better about the Great Beyond. Sounds like fucking suicide to me, but what do I know? I mean, maybe it's true, all this is illusion, but I just don't see it going away. We've got too much invested in it. You just do your job, get paid, clock out, and do whatever the hell you want to do off-duty. Only way to live.

So what am I doing here?

Good fucking question.

_10:12:50_

(The rustle of a box, followed by the rasp of a lighter. Subject pauses to smoke and drum his fingers on the table.)

Am I done here yet? Sephiroth is _waiting_.

(Loudspeaker clicks on. The woman's voice returns.) _You may conclude your recording now. _

_10:14:25_

Oh, thank Gaia.

Oh, and Hojo? You can go fuck your uncle for locking me up in here. I ain't doing this again next month.

No way in hell.

Peace out, yo.

_End Time: 10:15:32_

(A chair scrapes along the floor, a door opens, then shuts, and the tape clicks off in silence).


End file.
